Fleeting Summer

Here we are, in mid-July. While summer doesn’t start officially until the end of June, I always think that it starts on Memorial Day weekend and ends on Labor Day. By that non-scientific count, we are half way through and, of course, I’ve not accomplished half of what I intended this summer. I’ve enjoyed my library work and I’ve had some fun, including travel, and I’m preparing for a wonderful performance with massed choirs at Davies Symphony Hall, but I haven’t found the time I thought I’d find to put all the busy-ness aside and just write. How can a writer not write? Or find the time to write? Somehow, it happens.

We say we want to write, but do we? Or do we prefer to “have written” in order to experience the satisfaction of a finished piece of work? I have the blessing of still having some accumulated vacation days and I plan to take a week in August to get back in the writing groove and re-set my writing pattern to its usual daily practice. I should clean my house and sort my possessions and complete projects, but I’m going to let them languish. This time, it will be writing first, not last.